


safety campaigns.

by bulletthestars



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Infidelity, M/M, POV Second Person, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 09:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1221877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulletthestars/pseuds/bulletthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nico comes in (to) Sebastian's room after qualifying in Bahrain. (Pre-Bahrain GP '13)</p>
            </blockquote>





	safety campaigns.

Nico comes to your bed once in a while. He knocks on your door, and the sound is almost shy and tentative. You laugh, because you know it is anything but. You open the door, and he looks at you expectantly, as if he's waiting for you to invite him in. You look at him, and your heart skips a couple of beats. His green eyes shine brightly as he looks at you and his blonde hair is a tousled mess, like he had just climbed out of bed. Your eyes travel downwards, taking in his appearance. Bare neck, a white shirt with two, no, three buttons unbuttoned, a pair of black trousers clinging to his legs. _Definitely obscene_.

'Come in,' you say thickly, moving aside.

There's a curious look in his eyes, and there's that slight upward quirk of his lips as he stands there in your room, waiting for you to say something. You feel like you're wearing too little now, clad in an old t-shirt and boxers, but then again, it's all going to change soon enough, he's going to get naked and you're going to fuck. After all, that's what he came for. After qualifying, you had felt his familiar touch on your back, creeping lower.

'Wait for me,' he had whispered.

And wait you did. You always will, because it's _him_.

You sit down on your bed, biting your lower lip as he stands in front of you. There's about a hundred and one things you want to say to him, you open your mouth, but you catch yourself before you ask something stupid. You don't want to say anything about qualifying and make a fool out of yourself, nor do you want to talk about the race tomorrow, this isn't the time and place for that, now that you're out of the paddock. He's waiting for you now, waiting for you to make the first move. As much as you want to savour it, you know that you can't let it drag for too long. So you take a deep breath and look up at him, meeting his eyes.

There's an amused look in his eyes, and you swallow hard. One button, two buttons, three buttons. He takes off his shirt, and you watch the unbuckling of his belt, his movements too slow for comfort. He leans forward and pulls off his trousers slowly, _oh so slowly_ , sliding them down inch by torturous inch. He knows you're watching, knows that you like this, knows that it goes straight to your cock when he looks at you, licking his lips, eyes half lidded.

It feels like forever since you've started doing this with him, yet your touches are still tentative, your fingertips ghost across his skin, barely touching even though you mean to caress him. He pulls your t-shirt over your head and your arms get tangled in your shirt, much to your annoyance and embarrassment. He laughs, and you nearly stop, freezing as you're taking off your shirt just to watch him like this. But you don't, and soon enough he's palming your cock through your boxers. You groan, arching against him and then he's hooking his thumbs on the waistband, and you lift your hips so that he's able to pull them off.

Awkward fumbling segue into fervent kissing on the neck, shoulders, but never on the lips. He's lying beneath you, cheeks flushed. You tear open the condom wrapper with shaky hands, and he grabs the lube from where you've left it on the bed, slicking his fingers up, preparing himself. You watch, speechless as he fingers himself, opens himself up for you. He doesn't really need this, but he knows you like to watch. You don't know how he does this, lets himself go just like that while you're still so wound up, desperately clinging to any form of control you've got over yourself when you watch him like this.

'Fuck me,' he says, breathless. He licks his lips, and _fuck_ , you want so badly to kiss him, to drag your tongue across his lower lip and nibble and taste but you know you can't. There are boundaries you can't cross, rules you can never hope to break. So instead, you comply, applying a liberal amount of lube on your cock before pushing into him.

 _He isn't mine_ , you think, even as your fingernails sink into his skin. There'll be marks tomorrow morning, and you'll think of him wearing your marks underneath his racing overalls tomorrow afternoon, tiny red crescents on his skin reminding the both of you of what you've done. You thrust into him, and he cries out, arching forward. He moans, incoherent syllables leaving his lips as you push into him. His hands are fisted in the bed sheets and he's tugging at them, eyes squeezed shut.

'Look at me,' you say hoarsely. When he doesn't obey, you press your fingers into his skin, so hard that you're probably going to leave finger shaped bruises later on.

His eyelids flutter open and he looks at you with that look in his eyes that says he's too far out, this feels so fucking good and he looks so vulnerable like this and it _hurts_ because what the fuck are you going to say to him? That you want more than just _this_? That you want to love him, to cuddle with him after you're done with sex, to see him smile that stupid smile of his that he saves only for Jenson Button for you instead?

'Sebastian,' he says, _whines_ and it tears you apart, hearing him say your name like that, voice broken. You aren't gentle with him, or rather, you'd like to be gentle with him but somehow you can't. Perhaps it's because you're always wanting to leave marks, always wanting to make sure that he'll remember you, that he'll crave for more. You remember how it had all started, it had been stupid of you to go drinking with him and Jenson and afterwards, in the morning, when you had found yourself half naked in someone else's hotel room (probably Nico's, you're not too sure) you had gotten yourself into a conversation which had ended with Jenson saying that he'd be alright if Nico went to you for a long, hard fuck once in a while even though the two of them are in a relationship. Just sex. Nothing more. Friends with benefits, that's all there is to it.

When he comes, he bites hard on his lower lip, choking back a cry. He lies beneath you, soft and pliant and trembling as you rock into him, seeking release. You're not to kiss him, you're not to bite anywhere. He isn't yours. You press your lips against his neck, groaning his name against his skin when you come, shuddering. You lie together for a while, with him stroking your back for a bit before he's asking you to move because he wants to take a shower, and of course there's that condom you need to dispose of. _Right_ , you think. _Back to the real world_. He's going to leave, and you're going to be alone in your bed, just as always.

Nothing ever goes the way you want it to. Somewhere along the way, in between questions like _there're a couple of things I'd like to try with you_ and _you alright there, I won't come round if you're not up to it tonight_ , you had found yourself tangled up in something you had no intention of touching. You've still got a girlfriend, and she's the one you should be looking forward to seeing, to holding close, not Nico fucking Rosberg, filthy and debauched in your bed, always leaving afterwards. You're not too sure how it's like with Nico and Jenson, but to you, this should be just hot sex with another guy and nothing more. That's what it's supposed to be. That's what it should've been right from the beginning.

You were never supposed to fall in love.


End file.
